


I Didn't Come to Play It Safe

by alifeasvivid



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst Lite, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, brief mention of sex, nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 16:35:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13011786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alifeasvivid/pseuds/alifeasvivid
Summary: ...I came to win or lose with you.America has been calling England a lot recently and England can't figure out why until one particular call changes everything... and it's definitely for the better.Inspired by "It's Only Me" by Dessa, but not a songfic.





	I Didn't Come to Play It Safe

**Author's Note:**

> I heard this song and I wrote this bit of fluff. I was gonna post it on tumblr, but it got a little longish for that, so I'm putting it here. There's a really, really, REALLY short line about England feeling in the past like his love for America was incestuous, but it's so brief and basically irrelevant, so I didn't tag it, but it's there, so you were warned.

It’s around noon in London when England’s mobile rings. He’d had it screen side down on his desk next to his food in anticipation of his lunch hour, so he answers without looking to see who it is first. “Arthur Kirkland speaking,” he says, as he usually does on the off-chance someone without proper security clearance somehow got his number.

“England. It’s just me.”

England’s brow furrows. “America?”

“Yeah.”

The island Nation pushes his primly-cut sandwiches away and settles back in his office chair. He’s not terribly surprised to hear from America, the lad has been calling more frequently lately, but England has yet to discern the reason and whenever he presses for one, America obfuscates. Deliberately. It’s not that England minds speaking to him; he has even come to find it enjoyable. America is different during these phone calls than he is at meetings and England finds the change refreshing, but he would feel more comfortable about the whole thing if he could somehow assuage his suspicions of an ulterior motive on America’s part.

America is silent and England checks his watch. “America? Is it not quite early there? Could you not sleep again?” This is not so unusual either, for America to call at some strange hour in whatever time zone he happens to be in, and to his own dismay, England idly wonders if America’s only ulterior motive for calling is that he finds England’s voice so dull that it helps him fall asleep.

“I slept a little. I had a dream and it woke me up.” America sounds either very tired or very shaken and it’s hard to tell which over the phone.

A wave of centuries old nostalgia hits England, accompanied by memories of visits to his little colony and tucking the small boy against his chest and under his chin, kissing the top of his head whenever he had a nightmare and worrying about what America did for comfort when England wasn’t there. England shakes his head slightly, having privately resolved not that long ago not to think of America that way anymore, as a child, as his ward or little brother. Such thoughts stand in stark contrast to his current feelings toward the now-superpower and add a layer of some kind of discomfort, shame maybe?, to them that England would really prefer not to feel.

Besides, with the wonders of international cellular plans, England doesn’t have to spend months at sea just to comfort America. “A nightmare? Do you want to tell me about it?”

“It--” a sigh, maybe a yawn, “it wasn’t a nightmare.”

“Are you alright, lad?”

“Yeah. I’m great. Good. I’m awesome.”

England blinks for a moment, confused because he almost never hears that kind of deadpan, edging on angry sarcasm from America. “America, if there’s something--”

“You’re probably wondering why I call you all the time, aren’t you?”

“Well, I mean, yes, but--”

“And you probably want me to stop bothering you, don’t you?”

England frowns again. “I never said that. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“‘d like to put somethin’ in your mouth.”

Despite the exhausted slur in America’s voice, England hears him very clearly and his eyes widen. “What does that m--?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Fuck. I can’t do this. God, you know, you’re so... and I just...”

England sits a little straighter in his chair at the frustration he hears in America’s voice. “You can’t do what? America, I’m becoming concerned. Are you really alright?”

“No. No. I mean, it’s okay. I’ll be fine. I’ll just go now. I won’t call you anymore, I promise.”

“America! Don’t you dare hang up! I am very worried about you now and I assure you that I do enjoy speaking with you, but I would like an explanation.”

Another sigh, shaky this time, definitely not a yawn. “I love you.”

England goes completely rigid. “America, what--?”

“I call you because I have these dreams about you. I’ve had them for as long as I can remember and they’re good. They’re so good. And it’s not like all of them are, like, you know, _that_ kind of dream. Some of them are just-- but you never speak in them and I wake up and all I want is to hear your voice, so I call you and then last time, when it happened and we talked, you were so nice and you didn’t even seem annoyed so I told myself the next time it happened, I’d tell you and... anyway. That’s why. It’s because I love you. I’m in love with you, England. Can I hang up now?”

“What? No, you may absolutely not hang up now! You cannot simply tell me something like that and then hang up!”

“Please? I promise nothing will change and I’ll… I’ll get over it. Eventually. Probably. But I’ll try really hard! I know you don’t feel the same way, so please just--”

England’s mind races, suddenly wanting to know exactly how long America has felt this way, so he can know exactly how much time they’ve wasted not being in each other’s arms and then shortly after deciding he doesn’t want to know at all because it would painful and all he wants to feel right now is the blissful relief that every feeling he had first deemed incestuous and then merely inappropriate and then finally excruciating is returned.

“England? Please just tell me you don’t love me already and let me hang up.”

He can’t help but smile even as an entire universe of possibility opens up before him and steals his breath. He opens the laptop situated on his desk and starts searching for the quickest flight to Washington DC. The wonders of cellular plans and even webcams and FaceTime be damned, he wants to hold America. He needs to, especially now that he realizes how much pain the boy has been in. “Hm. First, you put words in my mouth and now you see fit to take feelings from my heart?”

“What?”

“You’re a daft git. Though it appears that I am as well, so perhaps it’s perfect.” His next words hesitate on his tongue, not for lack of sincerity, but rather because they cannot believe they are finally going to be said. And they must be said. “I am in love with you as well, my darling boy,” England murmurs softly, face entirely flushed as he books a ticket for a red-eye tonight and suddenly every hour until the designated arrival time stretches out before him like a month at sea.

“You are? Like… really? England, if this is a joke, it’s not funny. I know you think I can’t be serious about anything, but I’m serious about this, so please tell me you mean what you just said.” There’s no accusation or anger in his tone, just desperation and heartbreak.

England can’t even find it in himself to be insulted at America’s doubts about his veracity because how many years have they spent poking and prodding and goading each other and squabbling and holding each other at arm’s length? “It is not a joke,” he says evenly, making no comment about just how cruel does America think he is because he must think England is exactly as cruel as England himself has led him to believe. “I really am very much in love with you.”

There’s an audible gasp over the phone. “Wow, that’s… I mean…” Now England can hear the smile he loves so much in America’s voice. “That’s so awesome!”

England chuckles lightly. “Yes, it is.” His eyes flit to the laptop screen. “I’m coming to see you. I already booked a flight for tonight. Is that alright with you?”

“What? Really? Yeah. Yes. It’s fine. It’s always fine. I always want to see you, but uh… I’ll probably have to send someone else to pick you up.”

“Oh. Are you busy?”

“No,” and just from that one small word, England knows that smile has turned into a beaming grin. “I just won’t be able to stop myself from kissing you in the middle of the baggage claim at this point.”

England can’t help his own grin as if they are already standing face to face. “Well, I suppose that would be alright. If that’s what you want.”

“Yeah. It is. It really is. Okay, so send me your itinerary and I’ll be there and… wow, just wow. I can’t wait.”

“Nor can I.”

“Hey, England?”

“Yes, love?” he responds, which earns him a giggle.

“I love you.”

“I love you also. Now get some sleep, you’re going to need it,” he says, voice full of promise.

“I really don’t know you can possibly expect to sleep now, I mean-- oh. Oh! Um. Hah. Yeah. I’ll try.” England can vividly imagine the cute blush staining America’s cheeks.

America does make good on his promise of a kiss in the airport. England stands before the baggage carousel, keeping an eye out for America while trying to pretend that he isn’t. America surprises him anyway, sweeping him up off his feet quite literally and laughing happily. He kisses England and it’s soft, sweet, and a little shy, but no less eager. During the ride back to America’s house, he talks England’s ear off about any number of things, which is very typical and familiar, but there’s energy sparking between them at that point and it’s too much to ignore.

England can tell America didn’t sleep at all, but they make love anyway and it’s just like America’s kiss--soft, sweet, and a little shy, but no less eager, which is perfect because it’s more a matter of learning each other than anything else.

America falls asleep almost immediately after and England gathers him into his arms, tucks the boy against his chest and under his chin, letting the past inform the present but not dictate it. They will always be what they are, but neither of them has to be alone anymore, so England kisses the top of America’s head and feels nothing but joy.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos are love. Comments are life.


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